


in the twilit hour

by erebones



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Character, Blow Jobs, Existential Crisis, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, The Calling, Warden Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7034545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver reminds Felix that the present is worth more than an uncertain future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the twilit hour

**Author's Note:**

> In this 'verse, Felix was saved from dying of the Blight at the very last moment, but at the price of his sight. aka a super fun exercise in writing smut without visuals.

The stone under his fingers is damp in the early evening chill, gritty against his skin as he walks the outer wall. He can feel how high up he is in the moan of the wind and the tangy smell of snow in the air, not quite so apparent down in the belly of the fortress grounds where everything is steeped in old magic and smells pungently of growing things. Here the world is cool and solitary, and it sinks into his bones like a poultice, soothing his ragged edges. No whispers follow him here but for the whisper of the wind against the stone; no one hurries to help him or get out of his way, babbling apologies that crawl under his skin like thorns. Just himself and the mountains, lurking under his feet and towering overhead, great unseen behemoths whose bones still slumber along Ferelden’s spine. 

The wall under his head turns a sharp corner, and something he can’t quite define brings him to a halt. A moment later his intuition is rewarded by a soft throat-clearing and he takes a quick step back. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” 

“Er. You’re not intruding, Felix.” 

Oh. Not just a random scout or runner, but Warden Carver himself, more familiar to his ears than almost any other voice in Skyhold. He straightens up subconsciously and walks the next few steps with his chin high until he feels the sturdy touch of a hand at his waist. He puts his hands up to cover Carver’s chest, firm and covered in wool over chainmail instead of his usual breastplate, and warm lips brush against the curve of his eyebrow. 

“What are you doing up here, silly man?” 

“I could ask the same of you.” Carver sounds amused, which is good—usually his nighttime wanderings bring him to odd corners of Skyhold when the nightmares grow too much. Felix isn’t sure whether to be grateful or not that he has yet to experience this ‘false calling’ bestowed on all possessors of the taint. “Couldn’t sleep?” 

“You know I keep odd hours. But you, serrah, should be in bed. You’ve only just returned from your last trip.” 

Carver sighs, and it smells of sweetgrass and a little like the bitter ale he favors from the Herald’s Rest. “I know. It’s strange, but I’m finding it harder and harder to sleep alone these days.” 

“Then you should have come to find me,” Felix scolds him gently. 

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Carver falls silent when Felix reaches up to touch his mouth, lightly brushing the contours of his lips and then up to his long-lashed eyes. His fingertips aren’t sensitive enough yet to feel out the weariness straining his eyelids or the furrows of his crow’s feet, but he can feel them crinkle in a smile, and he’s prepared for the little kiss dropped onto his wrist when he pulls away. 

“You never bother me. Well, almost never.” 

“Then may I join you in your bed, serrah?” 

There’s a smile in his voice, and Felix leans up until his nose grazes the stubbled plane of his jaw. “Please do.” A gentle hand touches the underside of his chin, coaxing him up until their lips meet. Dizzy, Felix leans against him, sheltered from the wind between the wall and Carver’s bulk, and feels infinitely safe in the dark as Carver kisses him softly. He pushes his face into Carver’s collar when it breaks, suddenly sleepy. 

“Come on,” Carver says into his hair. “I’m not carrying you back.” 

“You would if I asked nicely,” Felix tells him, but he straightens up and finds his feet again, Carver radiating warmth like a bulwark at his side. 

Together they make their way down to the main castle proper, arms hooked together. Something Felix has always appreciated about Carver is that he’s never tried to  _help_  him, not in that condescending way that so many people do, expecting him to be helpless just because he can’t see. True, it was an adjustment, but Carver has only ever encouraged and challenged him, and their linked arms now are not a crutch, but affection.  

The air seems to grow heavy and warm as they descended to the castle proper, leaving behind the alpine chill of the battlements. Felix isn’t precisely sure of the time, but it's well after supper, and aside from a few runners sweeping back and forth through the beaten-down grass and the laughter still coming from the open kitchen doors where workers scour the last of the day’s pots and pans, there are few people around. He’s gotten quite handy at being able to get a general feel for how many people are in his immediate proximity; perhaps it’s just the late hour and the dream-like quality of the tavern songs drifting on the breeze, backlit by the sharp, piney aroma of woodsmoke stinging his nose, but he feels as if he’s floating along without a single soul to interrupt the peace of the evening. No one nearby but Carver, solid and content to walk in silence as they cross the open ground and up into Skyhold’s living quarters.   

Carver doesn’t indicate a preference, so Felix subtly guides them toward his own little room. He knows he was lucky to have a room to himself to begin with, and now he’s used to the size—in fact, it’s rather come in handy. His body knows its exact measurements; four steps from the door to the desk, turn one hundred and twenty-six degrees and two large steps to the bed. Above the bed is a narrow lancet window filled in with stained glass, or so he's told. All he cares about is that when it gets stuffy and close, thick with the oily smell of burning too many tallow candles and the dust of old books, he can crack the leaded casement with the right application of force and let in a breath of brisk mountain air to clear his head.   

But he hasn't been studying for a while, having abandoned his books after the servant brought his dinner, and the room was cleaned and freshened in his absence, so he ignores the window for now and instead sits at the foot of his humble cot, a thin mattress stuffed with clean rushes and just wide enough for two to lay snug together. He bends and undoes the laces of his boots, setting them neatly at the foot of the bed, and then starts on his tunic, working from the top down.   

He can hear Carver moving around the room, boots scuffing heavy on the floor—he cocks his head a little as he works open his tunic clasp by clasp, listening to the familiar pattern of his tread. It's a sound he hasn't heard in weeks, and the sound is undeniably comforting. Every time Carver leaves on a new assignment, he fears the worst. He tries not to let it worry him, but it's impossible. The first week is always the worst. His appetite dwindles down to almost nothing and it's difficult to focus on his work, even with the clarity potions Dorian is so clever at making. Then, slowly, he grows numb to Carver's absence, and throws himself into his work with singleminded ferocity, keeping late hours and relying on servants to bring him his food and to see to his basic needs. This is followed by the taut complacence, falling into healthier patterns even though sleep is still sometimes hard to come by.    

It's hard to admit how hard he's fallen for this man, this wisp, this shadow—a dead man walking, Carver has said more than once, but Felix can't bring himself to agree. Taint or no taint, Carver is alive, cursing colorfully when he stubs his toe, whistling under his breath as he shrugs out of his clothes and folds them in a haphazard pile on the desk chair. Alive when he comes close with a waft of warm air and cups Felix's face in his broad hands, bending to smooth gentling kisses to his brow, the tip of his nose, the apple of his smiling cheek.   

Felix reaches up and feels him—smooth skin at his chest, his loose shirt hanging open almost to the navel, and down to his smallclothes where he's already lying heavy to the left, damp and fragrant after a hard day's ride. Carver nuzzles into the top of his head and says, "I should probably call for a bath first," but Felix shakes his head and squeezes the heft of him, admiring him like it's the first time.  

"My ox," he teases, and Carver huffs, but Felix knows he's not annoyed. It's the sound he makes when he's embarrassed and trying to pretend he's not proud of his physique. But Felix has no such qualms. "Come up on the bed," he says, scooting back to make room. The mattress dips, and he lets his hand stray, palming the smooth muscle of one broad thigh as Carver eases past him and lays down. He follows the strong pillar of one leg, up the hard shin sprinkled with hair to his kneecap, bisected with a thick, ropey scar that sometimes pains him in rainy weather, even with all the healer's work to save his leg. It's the closest call he's had yet, and Felix always revisits it, a reminder of what can happen when Felix isn't there with him. Not that Felix _could_ be there, anymore. A taste of the old bitterness rises up, and he swallows it, wills himself to rise up on his knees and follow the trail higher.  

"Hey," Carver says, and catches his hand even as it finds the hem of his shirt tangled across his upper thighs. "Everything alright?" 

Felix purses his lips and curls his hand into Carver's palm. His hands are so much bigger than Felix's, thick fingers, a wide palm littered with scars, all callused and rough from the life of a traveling warrior. Felix has calluses too, but they're smaller, formed from hours of writing out equations and sending letters of enquiry to universities and scholars in search of knowledge. He's not unhappy with his lot as a scholar—and certainly his father is pleased to have him following in his footsteps, at least to some degree—but he can't help but feel a little useless sometimes, bound to the four narrow walls of his chambers while Carver roams far and wide seeking aid for the Inquisition.  

"Fee." Carver sits up when he doesn't respond right away, and waits—waits for Felix to welcome him into his space instead of invading without asking. It melts a little of the stiffness curling in his throat, and he leans forward to rest his forehead on Carver's shoulder.  

"I miss you when you're away." 

They have never defined what they are, and maybe that's the hardest part. Maybe the next time Carver comes riding through the gates he'll have a wife on his saddle, or a husband, or—Maker forfend—a _child_. And Felix will be shut out of his life, playing the part of friend, companion, charity case. Sometimes it seems inevitable. Maybe that's harder than waiting for a corpse: waiting to be made into one.  

Carver's hand comes down warm and easy on the back of his neck. "I miss you, too." His thumb makes light circles behind one ear, sending a prickling warmth down his spine to pool in the bowl of his pelvic bone. "You have no idea." 

"Tell me." 

Carver takes a deep breath in and exhales, leaning back until he's laid out with his head propped up on the pillows and Felix is laid out against his side, feeling the steady thunder of his heartbeat under his cheek. When he speaks, his voice is a distant rumble, like thunder over the mountains—it shakes him down to his bones, and he feels as if he is in the presence of the Maker.  

"It's harder to leave you than it used to be. I don't know why. I hate that I can't find you, sometimes, in the early morning—and I can't postpone our departure, and whenever I leave without saying goodbye I'm afraid I'll come back and you'll be gone from me." 

"I won't be leaving Skyhold any time soon. Not until Corypheus has been defeated and my father has outlived his usefulness." 

" _Outlived_ ," Carver scoffs, a mocking echo. "The Inquisitor isn't going to have him beheaded just because he isn't needed anymore." 

"That's not what I meant," Felix grumbles, and Carver hand alights in his hair, grown a little long and curly in the few months since he took up residence here. He had kept it short, once upon a time, clipped close to his scalp to combat the Tevinter heat, but in the last weeks of his illness it had fallen out, and there are still a few bald patches hiding under the tight, dark coils.  

"I know. I was teasing you, I'm sorry." His other hand crosses his body to pet the silky shirt Felix wears under his tunic, a little concession to the finer things he once took for granted. "Is it strange to hear that I... care for you?" 

"Not strange," Felix hedges, though it's not entirely the truth. "It's... I didn't think to ever hear you say it." 

Carver jerks a little at this, sitting half-up and shifting Felix to the pillow. He lays back and closes his eyes against the dark, just feeling him: his weight leaning over him but not quite resting on him, his hand wide and firm against his ribs. He lays very still, just breathing, the weight of Carver's gaze on him like fingers stroking lovingly against the planes of his face, the thin, tender skin of his throat.  

"I know I can be crass,"  Carver says hesitantly. "And... sometimes I find it difficult to speak my mind on... romantic matters. It's—it doesn't come naturally to me. I'm not a poet." 

"I don't need a poet, silly man," Felix says. His face is very warm, suddenly, and his chest is tight with fluttering. "Just come back to me in one piece." 

"I'll try. I try every time." The tip of his nose brushes Felix's cheek, and he welcomes his kiss enthusiastically, tasting his mouth with an eager tongue as he fists his hands in Carver's shirt. It's roughspun cotton, flawed, with loose threads and the occasional patch of damp where he'd sweated through it during the day's ride. He smells like hard work and hot sun and leather, like a man, the sort of man who can swing a bloody great claymore in battle like it's nothing, the kind of man who can kiss Felix breathless and then make love to him with such gentle, tender affection that it brings tears to his eyes. He moans into Carver's mouth and frees his legs from underneath him, just enough to wrap them around Carver's solid waist.  

His hips are thick and sturdy, and Felix reaches down, arms slipping under Carver's biceps to ruck up his shirt and squeeze his muscular arse with both hands. Carver laughs into his mouth and goes with the movement, rocking against him gently. Felix twists a little, mouth agape, and whines when the hefty bulge in Carver's smalls aligns perfectly with his own. Humming, Carver moves, licking down his neck as he grinds him down into the mattress with devastating accuracy.  

"I've missed you so much," he gasps, ashamed of his weakness but unable to keep from confessing it. He hates to be dependent on anyone, but he knows he is dependent on Carver—to be his rock, his guiding presence, his laughter when it feels like he has none left to give. It's not a dependence brought on by misfortune, but by camaraderie, sown by loneliness and raised up in the light and rain of friendship. He's known Carver for all of a few seasons, but he knows now that he would never be able to live without him.   

"I need you," Carver says, his voice a throaty rumble, thick and coarse with desire. His kisses have teeth, and Felix bites back with his hands, nails scraping up the planes of Carver's back. Carver makes a broken sound and heaves back like an ocean wave, kneeling up between his legs. He can hear the whisper of cloth as he pulls his shirt over his head, and the mattress rocks like a ship in a gale as he struggles out of his smallclothes one leg at a time, cursing and muttering under his breath. Felix passes light fingertips over his own body, down to the gaping plackets of his unlaced trousers. His prick is hard in his smalls, and he palms himself as he waits for Carver to come back to him.  

When he does, it’s with bold hands snaking up his shirt and a hot mouth on his belly. Felix groans and sprawls his legs wider in invitation. Carver huffs a laugh against his navel and nuzzles the tender skin there. “Can I disrobe you?” he asks, in that low, self-conscious way he has when he’s trying very hard to be a gentleman.  

Felix reaches down and threads his fingers through his soft hair. “Please.” 

Carver’s mouth is a gentle curve against his hipbone as he tugs his trousers down his hips and drags the smallclothes with. Felix toys with the hem of his silken shirt a moment before dragging it over his head, and then he quivers slightly in the chill air, feeling the cool stone just a few inches away leeching the heat from his body. Then there’s an easy brush of fingers across his chest, teasing one nipple before trailing lower. He feels his belly tighten in response and tries to relax.  

He knows he has scars. The Blight sickness ravaged him, and from what the healers have said, it’s left its mark, and not just in the most obvious way. He supposes he counts himself lucky that he will never see the damage--the hollow clasp of his ribs, the dark bruising around his eyes, the discoloration of his skin where the disease left a stain, like old birthmarks faded into new bruises. He doesn’t hurt, anymore, and he doesn’t feel the difference in the texture of his skin apart from where the bones poke through where once he was covered in a healthy layer of fat and muscle, a pretty golden Minrathous boy whose good looks were only rivaled by his friendly demeanor.  

Now, some days, he fancies himself a cripple, a recluse with few friends and no desire to try and reclaim the part of social butterfly he once held so easily. But it’s hard to feel sorry for himself with Carver whispering reverent curses into his skin, stroking his thighs with his rough palms, his breath a hot, moist flicker at the base of his cock.  

That, at least, has returned full force, partly thanks to Carver’s patient, prolonged interest. At first there was chess, Carver endlessly fascinated by the charms Dorian replenished every few days to give him extrasensory abilities to extend his self-sufficiency. Then passing the time in one or the other’s chambers with a pitcher of wine and a book as Felix learned to read with the ever-improving amulets his father insisted he try. And then, one day, a kiss. He can’t recall quite how the rest followed, but he needs no reassurances--Carver is here, and real, and he has nothing to be afraid of.  

“Beautiful,” Carver murmurs, curling one hand around his prick and running his lips over the plump head. Felix tilts his hips up, chasing that sensation, desperate for the benediction of his mouth. And Carver gives it readily, mouth open and slurping like a whore desperate for an extra copper. Felix has never seen his mouth, but oh Maker he’s _felt_ it, and he firmly believes there’s no mouth more talented in all of Thedas. The lips are plump and mobile, teeth tucked away easily like it’s second nature, his tongue hot and smooth and relentless against the most sensitive parts of him.  

The end comes swiftly. It's been long, lonely weeks since he's had Carver in his bed, and Carver is greedy, hungry, devouring him with sloppy gulps that ease him into the back of his throat until he gags. Felix gasps and twists his fingers into Carver's hair relentlessly, every muscle taut as he hovers on the edge—then he feels, very carefully, a hand slip up his belly to press against his sternum. His hand spreads wide, fingers sprawled out, and the thunder of his own heartbeat is suddenly illuminated, a beacon of fury and fire that ignites his blood and sends his orgasm roaring through him like a hurricane.  

He cries out, head back into the pillow; Carver's nails scrape inward just a little, and he feels the shock of it lick down his spine. He barely even registers that his cock is halfway down Carver's throat—only that he is engulfed, embraced by this man who is so much larger than life, subsumed into the raging dark fire of his being.  

When he comes back to himself his breath is harsh in his ears, and the bed is quivering slightly under his body. Very faintly, under the heavy bellows of his own lungs, Carver is whimpering into his thigh; when Felix lets his hands slide from his hair, he can feel hot breath and the desperate rhythm of Carver's shoulder as he brings himself to completion.  

Carver is quieter than Felix—he pushes his face into the inside of his thigh and grows stiff, breathing harshly through his nose for a few drawn-out moments. Then he slumps, kissing where he'd buried his cries, and hums when Felix draws long, languid strokes with his fingertips down the sweat-damp side of his face.  

"Hello," Felix murmurs when Carver turns to lip at his hand. He traces the thin inner skin of his lip, and Carver grins with his fingers laying shallow in his mouth.  

"Hey, sweetheart. Sorry, it's been a while." 

He snorts. "Don't be sorry. You can make it up to me later." 

"Mmm. Yes, that sounds like an excellent idea."  

The bed creaks as Carver pushes himself upright, and Felix tips his chin up, ready for the kiss Carver smears across his mouth. His belly tightens; the memory of their garbled, not-quite-batant confessions returns to him, the _I missed you so much_ , the _I want you_. _I need you_. He reaches up and seizes Carver's hair in his hand, dragging him down to hide his face in his shoulder.   

"Hey. All right, sweetheart?"  

"Lay with me," he says—commands, very nearly, but Carver obeys without question.  

The bed is narrow, but they fit their bodies together on the lumpy mattress, Carver curling around him protectively and throwing one arm across his chest. His nose burrows in just below Felix's ear, tickling the curls that coil there damp with sweat. He hums and presses a kiss there, and Felix's chest grows tight, like it's trapped between the planes of hammer and anvil.  

“Don’t ever leave me.” It’s barely whispered, but the room is quiet enough and their breaths slowed enough that it’s easily audible. Carver tightens his arm and kisses him again, twice, little soft presses of lips that fill him to the brim with light.  

“I can’t promise that,” Carver replies quietly, with the stoic grimness of years of slowly dying, poisoned to death by the very blood in his veins. “I’m sorry. I wish I could.” 

“I know.” Suddenly disgusted with himself, with his weakness, he flings Carver’s arm off and rises from the bed, going to the washstand opposite his desk. There’s still plenty of water in the pitcher, and he has enough mana and enough skill to heat it to a comfortable degree. He wets a flannel and wipes his face and chest, scrubbing his neck and up into his hair, trying to scrape the feeling of Carver’s sweet affection from his skin.  

There are hands on his waist. He jumps a little--he hadn’t even heard him get off the bed, which is unusual; Carver always makes deliberate noise when he moves so Felix knows where he is--and an apologetic kiss is dropped onto the slope of his shoulder.  

“Fee…” 

“What?” He wrings out the washcloth with hands that shake, and lets it hang off the hook nailed to the wall to dry. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what? It’s not your fault I’m…” The words stick in his throat. He doesn’t even know quite what he wants to say--Common is so limited. The poets of his own people would have the language to describe the tangled thorns inside his ribcage that prick the tender flesh of his heart, but he is rendered mute by his own incompetence.  

“Fee. Please.” He stands close, so close his thighs brush the backs of Felix’s legs, hands coming around to cup his hollow stomach. “I don’t mean--you’re everything to me. Everything. I take extra care because I can’t bear the thought of returning to you in a wooden box. I don’t know what else I can say.” 

“There is nothing you can say. I am everything except your duty, and that is something you cannot escape.” He clutches Carver’s hands in his own, dreading the day the Calling will take the man he loves, seducing him with its dark song into the bowels of the earth to die. “So there’s no point in talking about it.” 

Carver releases him when he turns, but he doesn’t push him away, just stands with his head bowed and his forehead resting against the firm swell of one pectoral. He cups the back of his neck, not keeping him there, just a light touch for comfort and affection. “For as long as I can, I’ll come back to you.” 

Felix sighs. “Don’t go back to your barracks. Stay here with me.” 

“I have to prepare the recruits. There will be a joining ritual tonight after dinner.” 

“Prepare them for what? To die? There is nothing you can do for them now. Stay.” 

Carver exhales and gathers him in close, mouth to his brow; he can feel the unhappy crease of his mouth, and regret stabs his gut like a knife. “All right. I’ll stay. But you have to come back to bed.” 

“That will not be a hardship.” He steps away, finally--a little disoriented, he takes a few halting steps until he comes to the bed and can lay down. It’s still mussed from their activity, and the sheets smell of sex and sweat; when he buries his face in the pillow he feels a little tickle of contented arousal ripple through him.  

Carver’s weight sinks beside him, and he stretches out on his back, arm laid out comfortably over Felix’s back. “I know it’s difficult,” he says, haltingly, “but if I’ve learned anything as a Warden it’s that life is short, always, and that the most important thing is to enjoy the moment you’re in. Pining after years we’ll never have together… it’s just a waste of time.” He bends his arm up and back to tug lightly at Felix’s curls. “So love me now, Felix Alexius, and don’t be sad. I’ve got a ways to go yet before my duty is done.” 


End file.
